


Midnight Bayou

by TenWoolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ACCENTS EVERYONE HAS AN ACCENT, Bite Time fest, Bitetime, Bitetime Fest, Boyd actually talks, Boyd and Derek own a bakery, Erica actually talks, Erica is a realtor, F/F, F/M, Isaac works in a pet store with Greenburg, Laura and Erica talk like southern belles its fucking great, Laura has a B&B, Lifetime movie AU, M/M, Stiles and Erica become fast friends, Stiles was a lawyer and now he wants to open a B&B, it's Bayou-ti-ful, mention of alcohol consumption, set in Georgia, slow budding romance, small town in Georgia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his Aunt Penelope's old house, nestled in the marshes just outside of Ostburn Lake, there's a wood burned sign hanging above the toilet that reads, "And the day came when the pain of staying in a tight bud was greater than the risk it takes to bloom"</p><p>Stiles goes from corporate lawyer to b&b owner with lovable Georgia neighbors annoying him left and right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Bayou

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the BiteTime Fest collection because they're so great! [ Check out the Midnight Bayou fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4098543/chapters/9232893) that Vague_Shadows and Strangeredlantern wrote!
> 
> -  
> Note on dialect; you'll notice (or won't because you don't care) that some characters have stronger accents than others and that some sentences will have uses of dialect words and slang and then absence of it (like using "to" and then using "t' " in the same sentence). That really is just how Southern folk talks, it's not a constant repeat of the same stressed syllables over and over again. The only thing I left unstressed were 'your' heard mostly as 'yer' and 'for' being heard as 'fer/fur'. They're more the obvious sounding but also look awful in text. Granted, my frame of reference is Texas, not Georgia.
> 
> Quote in synopsis is by Anais Nii.

* * *

Plantation estates are beautiful. Unfortunate as they stand, a testament to essential flawed beauty like eclectic flora scents that doubled as poisons, plantation houses were gorgeous. Tall ivory pillars holding up refined bay windows thrust open in the romantic breezes of the sticky afternoon. Welcoming women in stark white aprons would await with sweet tea, the smell of cornbread and honeyed blackberry cobbler on their fingertips.

The south was a place of wonder in its modern day. A green preserved land of mystique on the edge of harbored kindness like a second nature habit. Southern people, if you were like a mirror to them, were inherently kind to what they knew. And if your ears were like an answering machine, they'd talk all evening.

It was that kind of soft habitual kindness that Stiles needed, completely uninhibited quiet except in the off season for tourism in Ostburn Lake, Georgia.

He spent most of his early adult years trying to find his footing on a self weaving safety net. Success, as he found, was subjective. Had it been impressive for him to have been the youngest account manager in a firm of 20? Absolutely. Was it inspiring how he graduated Cum Laude from Brown University? Absolutely. Was is comforting to know that he could retire at 34 and live comfortably until his death at an estimated 85? Absolutely. Was he proud of any of it? Not one fucking bit.

The 9 to 5 schedule gave him pinched nerves, heart burn, and gastrointestinal discomfort. Which is not expected when you're 29 and didn't get to have the thrill of sad college misery finding yourself in other people.

The money had been good, so so good, but it was like every work day was spent trimming his nails down to the quick. Not painful, but he was a declawed cat. He wanted to be a cougar or a bobcat or... He didn't remember what the self-help tapes told him to be but it was definitely some kind of wild cat.

The vacation was needed. Well, if it was still considered a vacation after he up and quit then he needed that. Unemployed people still deserved vacations.

He had his laptop, he had some clothes, he had the will to do nothing. He assumed Georgia had drug stores with tooth brushes and little bottles of vodka.

* * *

 

Flying out wasn't exactly adventurous. Driving cross country in his pretentious car or on the slow will of Amtrak felt ideal and literary. But flying was the fastest. And it lacked the possibility of error since he lucked out with layover in Denver.

A self help book in audio form had been giving him tips for "starting over". And normally he was on the off side of 'self help' but having witnessed Liam Dunbar's real struggle with change as he wrote the damn book, he was inclined to become a reader.

"Life was a field to till, and you could plant any seeds as long as you watch them grow" was the book's premise. Which had some truth to it and all the more irony of Stiles situation. He had been flipping through Ostburn Lake's Wikipedia pages, enamored with the local legends and cursory landmarks. It was so quaint and quiet looking on the outside, like it was inhabited by NPCs who could tell you about the local history or complain about the taxes.

Stiles wasn't going to Ostburn for the first time, having visited the overgrown boonies to see a now long dead great aunt, Penelope. She hadn't left anything but a dilapidated house that got gone by the city a few months after her passing. The summer he and his father spent clearing out her trinkets and auctioning away furniture was marvelous. He remembered the taste of blue Popsicles and glass bottle sodas from the tiny candy store at the end of the road. He still heard how the pigs squealed in the morning with the rooster on Miss Matucket's farm across the road and the sound of his aunt's antique rusty wind chimes down on the porch.

His first return in nearly two decades was a business trip in disguise. He had the full intention of stuffing his face with crawdads and ribs while lazily rolling around the town. But he was looking at real estate. He packed light with the expectation that he'd find something quick enough to settle down in. Expectations aside, he only had two pairs of pants and a backpack.

There was a woman he had been emailing, seemingly welcoming and saying that the B&B game was where the money had really been. She booked him in a small suite at the Hale & Hollyhock house where the sun set in his window and rose in the shared breakfast book. Stiles was coming down in the off season for tourism but there was some amount of time wasting he could occupy himself with.

The Hale & Hollyhock house was right near main street, a rose and strawberry garden in the back where a gazebo was decorated for a lot of summer and spring weddings. It was the dreamy kind of place that filmmakers pestered the owner at all hours to shoot commercials and short films. But she had all the sense in the world to charge out the nose for film fees but offer free honeymoon night stays for actual couples tying the knot or jumping the broom.

All of this Stiles learned from various yelp reviews, of which there was a decent amount of but were all personally responded to by one, Laura Hale.

When he finally met her in person, a whole two hours after touching down on a Brekenridge airstrip, Laura pulled him in to the tightest hug that nearly popped his torso off.

"Mr. Stilinski! Good t' see you! I feel like I already know ya and you've been 'round a whole hot minute," Laura said. She had the slightest trill of an accent, like honey drizzled over a sweet bun.

Stiles wasn't really much of a hug person having done most of growing in business school and working with individuals who deigned their suit too good to wrinkle with affection. But Stiles tried to return the gesture as best he could with the little upper arm strength he had given that Laura had pylons for biceps.

"Please, my grandfather was Mr. Stilinski. I'm just Stiles. Or if you just yell 'Stilinski! Why is there jelly on these case files??' you'll get my attention..." He explained, trying to get the last few miles out of the spot on impression he'd perfected of his former boss. He mostly just put on an angry Walter Cronkite voice.

Laura laughed, probably out of southern kindness. "We need a good city slicker out here, Stiles. I hope we impress the snot outta ya. Bring your bags, we got ya' right next to the honeymooners from some Podunk city in Maine."

"Podunk?"

"Yeah, y'know those little armpits you find on road maps? They all huggin' up on the interstates ain't nobody ever heard of? My family grew up some fifty miles from here where there's thirty people in the summer and we called that a tourist season." Laura said, opening the front doors of the house for him, hitching a screen door to a hook on the other side.

"Does your family still live there?" Stiles asked fighting the weight of the bag in the hot humid air. The whole town felt sticky and miserable with the sugar sweetness glossing over any crankiness.

"Well, my daddy does, wrecks up the family ranch with my uncles. My mamma took off with my brothers and sisters and me after the divorce. Everybody's on lovin' terms but we keep outta that ranch unless it's Christmas time or grandma Lottie's 'bout to kick the bucket again," Laura said.

"Again?" Stiles asked.

Laura looked back at him, all smiles and blank expressions, leading him to of some grandiose stairs with the fake blue flowers strung on the bannister to match the décor. "Again?" She asked.

"You said 'kicked the bucket again'," Stiles said, lugged his bag behind him. It wasn't too full but rolling bags always had the tendency to act like they were lined with bricks.

Laura grinned, so big and toothy it puffed up her cheeks like strawberry marshmallows. "Never underestimate the gumption of a old dog livin' on a farm, Stiles. Rooms right up here," She pointed to a door just to the end of the hallway.

Stiles wasn't expecting much in the way of anything gender neutral when he knew that all Bed and Breakfasts were contractually obligated to be decorated by hospice consignment shops and little old ladies who smelled like peppermint. So he had prepared himself but he honestly should have taken a gander at the gallery on Laura's oddly-professional website so he could have judged the monster of a room he was staying in. Because, lord help him, this room was nearly monochrome it was so baby blue.

Crushed blue, powder blue, 13 hues of pastels, the blue room by the honeymoon suite was atrociously plush. The only exception lay with the eggshell white bed skirt that was so fluffy and ruffly, he was sure she'd fashioned it with two.

"Your key and a couple complimentary lit-tra-ture on Ostburn," Laura said pointing to the powdery blue wood night stand decorated with doilies. "If you get hungry c'mon down to the front, we usually got the kitchen going and if not there's some de-light-ful places to rustle up some grub down town," Laura said, walking over to the window and opening the blue embroidered curtains to a view of the terrace. "Great day out, still early unless you want to tuck in fo' a nap. You city folk always seem to take the first day to sleep."

"I've actually got a meeting with a realtor down main street. I google mapped it and it's something like 15 blocks away, luckily, " Stiles said, kicking his bag to the underside of the ruffle bed.

"Do not tell me it's with Erica Reyes-Boyd," Laura said like it was the happiest insult.

"Um, yeah, actually."

Laura threw her head back and Stiles expected a wild cackle to shoot out the back of her throat like some sort of evil quick but she just grinned like mad to herself, wide eyed and amused. "A word of advice; stop by the pet store off Herman drive when you pass it, grab a bag of them little whisker treats they keep by the register. That'll get you in good with her," Laura said and held up three fingers in a salute. "Scout's honor."

"Okay... But if she only shows me the places that double as Halloween haunted houses, I'm blaming you.," Stiles laughed and said pointedly, watching as Laura bounded out of the room like a happy child.

Alone in the room, he immediately opened up his phone to find the walking directions to Reyes & Reyes Realty, zooming in on a quaint pet store on Herman drive.

Curious, he pulled up their sparse yelp page for their hours and noted the three reviews, all weirdly similar. Every review had at least one mention saying "would have given five stars if the weird ringing was a decibel lower..."

* * *

 

Ostburn was beautiful this time of year. A gorgeous overlay of high tree top foliage, the canopy shedding lacey patterns on concrete and cobble stones so old they cracked in rhythms when a strong breeze went by.

The walk to Reyes & Reyes Realty was pleasant. Enough so that Stiles took a few detours around each block, getting a taste for the houses and early season baking that snuck out of open windows. The picturesque windows with pies and cobblers cooling in front of screens were abundant.

As suggested, Stiles stopped in to the humbly spaced pet store on main street, already an hour left until he needed to talk realty. He wanted to consider how a parakeet or cat would do in a b&b, maybe drawing in patrons or eliciting some form of ambiance.

He might do well to invest in some hotel management books to replace the self help books that were suppose to turn him in to a mountain lion.

Nevertheless, the pet store, fashionably named "Main Dog", was endearing. Delightfully tacky plush dolls hang from the ceiling, little price stickers on their paws in case anyone fell in love with mobile dogs and fish.

Patronage was sparse, just a sweet old woman buying bird seed from a boy with dirty blonde hair in bed head curls. He looked like a college student, maybe young for his age and had the jaw line of a boxer, sewing needle scars fading to a translucent pink in between sweet freckles.

Stiles slipped in past the crowded isles, favoring his left side as the sleeve of his coat caught the edges of a cat food display. He steadied it before it started falling but it got him a glance from the cashier, still enraptured with the senior, and a quiet smile.

Stiles threw a clumsy wave, sneaking in to look at the dog toys. Who didn't love dog toys? Tacky clever rawhide jokes in the form of stupidly designed rabbits, unlikable people, and cartoon or movie characters. Cat toys and bird bells were fine, but also easily breakable and unappreciated by their core audience. Dog toys squeaked and caused emotional turmoil in Golden Retrievers.

Stiles pawed at and touched the plastic fake ducks and kept himself from claiming a rubber chicken as a friend. They were all the investment high quality toys, meant for puppies who had allergies and eclectic parents that had money to burn. But pretentious as they were, it was all as endearing as the rest of the store.

"Can I help you find anything?" The cashier called out from the front of the store. The door swung closed as the old woman, happy with her bird seed and moving at the speed of a crawl, stepped out.

"No thanks!" Stiles said back walking through the isle and knocking down a row of bravely stacked plastic cat nip jars, "I'm just..."

The cashier watched him juggled between what fell in his arms and tumbled to the floor. Leaning forward he called out like a bad habit, "Yahtzee."

Stiles bubbled out a laugh that soothes through him and made it a lot easier to look at the cashier with a shy smile instead of five consecutive apologizes.

"You guys pack in a lot for how small you are," Stiles said, trying to recreate the pyramid of jar he excavated.

"It all goes pretty fast when summer hits. We can't get regular shipments in the tourist seasons so we stock up in the off time," he says, leaning in on his elbow in a dreamy wistful pose. He didn't have an accent like other Ostburn folk. He sounded clear but with lazy dips in his speech, like he's use to not being heard. His name tag read 'Isaac', pinned to a grey blue apron with silhouettes of sparrows lining the seams in orange fabric paint.

"What does the off season look like for you guys?" Stiles asked, making small talk as he pressed himself up against the counter. It was a little higher than it was probably designed to be, coming right up to the middle of his torso, not ideal for fifteen pound bags of kibble. Isaac was propped up higher, looking down on him with the kind of soft gaze he'd give a girl needing directions.

"There's mostly Pomeranians and those weird little white dogs with the curly hair and gross eyes. The ones who look like their crying mud," he said, happy when Stiles chuckled along. "Where're you in from?"

"San Diego. I'm making a life transition out of law," Stiles said.

"What are you transitioning to?"

"Getting in to the short accommodations game and opening a b&b," he said. "I hope at least. The back up is get fat here and go in to corporate law."

"This town's an easy place to put on a few pounds. Are you scoping out here or just passing through?" Isaac asked.

"I wanna do something here. I came here as a kid when my senile aunt had a farm. Its kind of, weirdly magnetic for me. I'm actually seeing a realtor in about twenty minutes."

"Reyes?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm seeing the daughter of the two, a woman named Erica."

"Word of advice, don't let her talk you in to any of the houses on Pine. All the basements flood in the spring."

"Really? I'll keep that in mind. Um, can I ask a weird question?"

Isaac nodded lazily.

"Do you know Laura Hale? She suggested I.." Stiles trailed off as Isaac chuckled at him, his head dropping in what seemed like a joke he had laughed at too many times.

"You know why she told me to come, don't you?" Stiles asked.

Isaac nodded again, biting back his bubbling laugh, "What did she say to ask for?"

"Cat treats," Stiles replied, pointing to the line of green and yellow bags behind the register, pinned up on a cork board to look like flowers and rain clouds. Seasonal displays seemed to take on a child hood whimsy in this town.

Isaac turned around and picked one of the rain clouds down, tacking the push pun back in under another bag.

He gingerly set it down on front of Stiles, lining it up with the edge of the counter. "It's on the house."

Stiles gave him a look but grinned all the same. He picked the bag up and slipped it into his pocket. In exchange, he tipped out his hand, "I'm Stiles, by the way."

Isaac covered Stiles' hand with spidery fingers and pointed to his name tag, flashing a sly crooked smile. "Isaac."

"Should I report back how it goes or am I going to regret this?" Stiles asked.

"Oh believe me, I'm going to hear about it," Isaac replied, the curve of his lip taking on a smirk. "But, you can always stop by if you need something more neutral tasting."

"I'll definitely swing back again, maybe for bird food, that can't get me into trouble," Stiles said, in a shy way of flirting. Something that he told himself he finally had time for given that the South didn't seem to describe any form of living as "high powered". Even the lawyers here seemed laid back in an effort to keep with tradition.

"One more thing," Stiles went on, changing the mood. "I saw online some people mentioned a weird ringing in the store but I haven't really heard anything. I don't even know why I'm asking, seemed like a good story might be behind it."

Isaac smirked, the sly smudge of a smile that hid what he knew because it was inherently more fun to keep a city secret. "Sometimes we don't want the big dogs hanging around," he said. "Good meeting you, Stiles."

"Yeah, uh, you too, man," Stiles nervously waved as he made his way out the door, looking over his shoulder at Isaac who's eyes followed him all the way to the sidewalk.

* * *

 

Given the jokes surrounding Erica Reyes, Stiles was expecting a woman with the kind of prowess that suggested a cut throat and catty veneer. Finding out that she was as cuddly as a catfish was something else altogether.

She immediately sat him down, practically yanking him by the arm to a chair in front of her tornado zone of a desk. The New York lawyer aesthetic she was going for was well encapsulated, grey pant suits and monotone office supplies with moth ball manila folders. It was like the set of a Danny DeVito movie, complete with burger wrappers in the waste basket.

She was a little erratic and seemed to find it hard to get her bearings straight, tossled hair In an oblong bun with with wisps of it surrounding her in a halo. There was a pen snuck above her ear, possibly from the day before.

"So Stilinski, give me a sense of the properties that you wanna be lookin' for today," Erica suggested, setting an empty coffee cup on top of a pile of papers, mistaking it for full and quickly pulling it back to her chest. She looked down at it and mumbled a complaint, turning back to Stiles and asking, "Coffee?"

"Um, yeah, just cream." Stiles was mildly vexed by the hurricane he walked in on. Shouldn't you be showing me properties instead of me showing you my..?"

He trailed off, watching Erica fly out of the room with long strides to where he assumed a kitchenette was. She called out, "I got 16 houses that would be PERFECT for you but they're 'bout as similar as a pack of dogs." The light clatter of porcelain accompanied her vibrant southern twang.

She came back through with more coordinated bounds, two coffee cups in hand with stream radiating off only one of them. Setting down a plain white mug in front of Stiles, she went on, "Now you see, all the house up here on main street are at a higher ex-pense, but they got more foot traffic if that's that you're lookin for. Snd they're still historical houses but with modern accouterments like plumbing and havin all the outhouses filled up and converted t' tool sheds.

"But the properties we got over on Harper Ave are also historical, most of which are in fact bigger what with the guest rooms havin their own closets converted to usable bathrooms, and some even got laundry chutes since they were built as work houses. That and they got the added value of being about 10% to 15% cheaper since they're a good half mile from main street, which counts for everything in the real estate biz.

"And then if you're feeling adventurous and frugal there are renovated country houses a good three to eight miles out of town, which is a quick stroll compared to what it takes to get to a Wal Mart in this part of the state. But those places need a bit a' upkeep and the amount of space isn't really all that conducive to what you want it' for a B&B place, 'less you wanna do some kind of ranch style get away for city folk."

"Ranch style get away?"

"Been all the range in them Home and Country magazines. Folks make room in their ranch houses for guests, charge some package deal that includes meals and clothes, and then put them to work on the farm as field hands. It's real lucrative like since you just need a bit a' extra bacon grease and some han-me-down overalls," Erica said, blowing on her black coffee and sipping it in noiseless slurps.

"What properties do you have for that?" Stiles asked, curious to see what was available for the sake of being curious. He had already gotten his sights set on a mint green town house he passed by on the way there.

"Well let's see," Erica swirled over to her computer, a desk top model that seemed a little too old to be in a modern office, especially with a tower in the hard plastic grey popular in Windows 2000. She clattered away on an even older worn down key board, hitting the down arrow keys hard enough to pop them off.

She swirled the sleek black monitor, a textural incongruence compared to the other hardware, and showed Stiles a far off photo of a farm house down a place called Harbour Rd. It faded to a photo of the house up close, red roof and wooden awning over an older porch with renovated flooring littered with rocking chairs. The screen door entrance had been left open, silhouetting to the view of a kitchen where the distinct gingham pattern on the table cloth was visible. Fading to other images, it felt like the same visions he'd had in old dreams when he couldn't stop thinking about Ostburn and the cry of chickens or the wistful clatter of wind chimes.

Then it hit him. "Wait, is that Edith Mawtucket's place?" he asked, leaning in close to try and see the house number on the mail box of one photo that popped up.

He didn't notice that Erica was nearly giving him the stink eye, confused and almost insulted that he'd know. "How in the hell did you know that?"

"My great aunt lived next door! Yeah my dad would take me there every summer until she died and they city reclaimed everything. Do you have a photo of the house where it shows the house next to it?" Stiles asked, absolutely mesmerized by all the details he remembered seeing out of his room in the attic. The fencing where the pigs use to roam around like lazy bumble bees and scratch their backs on the wood was still there. The obtuse shed with the tin roof and distressed yellow door was still there. And even the pinwheels in her font yard, metallic spinning ladybugs and bumblebees, were rain washed and turning.

"I can do you better," Erica mumbled, pulling out her phone and quickly opening up her photo gallery to a collection of house party photos. She handed it to Stiles, showing him the touched up interior of a place he thought as his second home 22 years ago. He took hold of her phone like it held all the knowledge in the world and just started at it, swiping to the next one over and seeing every detail like it was a memory.

Or, rather, a version of his memory. The house had been heavily renovated, gutted from top to bottom of its interior and filled with new accouterments to enhance its old image and still seem modern. But certain parts were still intact, the walls hadn't been redone, still the same rusty lemon yellow with polka dots that had been popular in the 1940's. And the same scratched floors were repolished but untainted, the dipped spot where he'd dropped a cinder block on a cock roach visible only if he squinted. And the bay windows were the same blue, the cabinets had their washboard shutters, and the stair case bannister still had its knobbed tiger foot end up to the second floor, the draw string to the attic hanging like a ceiling fan pull.

"God, it looks just like it did…." Stiles stared on for what could have been hours to him when Erica finally perked up.

"We can go there if ya' like," she suggested, propped up on her elbow and idly drinking her coffee out of a Halloween mug.

"Really?" Stiles said slack jawed and in awe, he hadn't even realized how much he missed that house and it was all he wanted to see now. It was a captivating kind of feeling to want to return to it, see if all the same splinters and knee scrapes could get refreshed in his memory.

"It's the Hale House now, my buddy Derek hosts a potluck once a month for all a' us. I'm sure a fella' home enthusiast would be much appreciated," Erica chided, taking back her phone from Stiles' slack hands and pocketing it.

"That'd be great!" Stiles replied, half the excitement getting caught in his throat. He was elated at the happenstance of it all, finding the Penelope's house when he wasn't even looking and getting to see it for the first time in almost 23 years. He had been 12 when he left for the last time, his back pack full of swim trunks and tshirts and all the knick knacks he couldn't bear to be left there and forgotten about. As he had gotten older, he figured that it had been either left to rot or mowed down for city development, a tiny town sprawling out to what he couldn't recognize. But it had all remained so secluded and unscathed, affected by tourism but free to stay intact as a historical town too proud to change to anything else. There was an odd variable of respect in that, out of reach fro- Hold on.

"Did you say Hale House?" Stiles asked, breaking away from his thoughts.

Erica paused, the synapses and neurons in her head connecting reasons why he'd ask such a thing being plugged in like a call center. "Do you…know the Hales?" She managed out, nearly gritting her teeth at the answer she was expecting.

"I'm staying at the Hale & Hollyhock B&B and uh, Laura mentioned she knew you and that I should pick something up for you on the way here…"

"Lord help me, what are you even doing at that place…" Erica mutter, staring up at the ceiling like she was asking god to stop testing her. She interlaced her fingers together with the calculated force that looked like she might break her own hands she was so frustrated. "What did ya' bring?" She asked, seething with vinegar on her tongue.

Stiles reached in to his coat pocket, the crinkling sound of the plastic giving him away as he watched Erica sink her entire face into her hands and groan. He gingerly put the bag on to her desk, watching it fall forward and neatly graze her elbow by accident. He traded for the coffee she'd brought him and hope there was some kind of subject change it could bring on. He brought it to his lips, wondering why it was cool to the touch and sipped it, confused at how sweet and milky the texture was.

"….Is this just cream?" he asked and immediately regretted it, watching Erica groan and slump head first into the desk, the hair tie holding her bun up popping off and burying her in a tidal wave of curls.

* * *

 

"So who's the other Reyes?" Stiles asked, fiddling with the zipper on the seam of his coat. He hadn't dressed up to look at houses, not even changing out of the clothes he wore on the plane.

Talking over their options for houses back in her office, Erica mentioned the mint townhouse Stiles had his eye on. She talked it up with a big game, spinning this story of stucco-hard coat floors, a breakfast nook with bay windows and a tea candle chandelier, four rooms with a renovated basement to include an additional two, crown molding, a small back yard garden and lawn, a 1945 porch swing, and provided furniture based on need. She was even going to throw in the grill if he liked it enough, figured it would be good for the summer barbecue season. It was the polar opposite of the luxury historic town home he was dreaming of and an absolute modern marvel of real estate. All the checks lists for "buy me now please".

With it described liked a dream, Stiles was eager to get it out of the way and start planning the beautifully tacky flash website he thought would be most appropriate. He and Erica opted to take the short walk and then meander to other properties in her company car. She had changed out of short nude colored pumps to sensible black running shoes that ruined her outfit. At least they were more practical in the light humidity and heat.

"My daddy. He started doing realty when he was 'bout 45 and's getting ready to retire with my mama. Seemed like the most sensible thing in the world to take on the business. Granted, I said that when I was 24 and that was the 3rd time he said he was gonna retire," Erica laughed. "Now he's just waitin' for my husband and me to start havin' kids."

"Is it what you want to do?"

"Havin' a litter would be great but then they'd never leave!" She exclaimed, the hick in her jaw sounding like she was constantly chewing up.

"I mean realty; Is that something you wanted to get in to?" He asked. It was a little intrusive but in his stretch to rediscover his true potential as someone who didn't put people in to debt on a daily basis he was starting to notice the frequencies of dissatisfaction in other people. The blame could be put on the self-help books, mulled over in his head like ABC gum and somehow not losing it flavor after nearly a month. He could still hear the feminine voice (obviously an actress hired to do the audio book since anybody would opt out of hearing Liam stutter over his own words and try to edit sections of a book that'd been published for a year) encouraging him to 'evoke daily habits of reflection' and to 'question habits that devalued his desires'. It was not mentioned anywhere in Liam's three best-sellers that his readers should be accepting double-negatives, however.

"If I had my way I'd be in my hubbies' bakery every day eating all the catawampus cupcakes," she chided.

"He works in a bakery?"

"He owns the damn place, near put us in to debt but those hot cakes sell nice and pretty every morning. And the Hales turn over a lot of business for those weddings they do every spring,"

"Now that sounds pretty ideal"

"Oooh, you'll meet him tonight, too. He and Derek cook up a storm for this every month,"

They crossed the street to where Main Dog sat in its cozy corner at the intersection. Walking by it before, Stiles hasn't noticed the mural on its side wall, an impressive serene wolf running over rolling hills in a flat impressionist style. There was drawings of children along the bottom near the sidewalk, all done in chalk by the hands of kids who thought they could do self-portraits, their names scribbled illegibly by their images.

Passing by the front door, Erica excused herself for a moment, pulling out the cat treats Stiles didn't even see her stow away in her pocket. She bounded in with those energetic springy steps again. And although he should have been out of earshot, Stiles could very clearly hear her yell, "EAT A DICK, LAHEY" as she chunked them at this head with a dramatic windup, stamping her foot on the wood floors for added intimidation.

She came out like nothing happened, lightly treading over the cobble stone to concrete steps back down the sidewalk, beckoning Stiles to follow her.

* * *

 

Stiles loved it. Fine house, perfect house, 10/10 stars.

It had all the makings of an impeccable home, the kind of layout that would get Town and Country in his living room every year for best of the best B&Bs or holiday cheer or country living. He could see himself framing and hanging publications that mention this house, tripadvisor and Food&Wine awards, and prominent figured public guest photos in the den.

The wine and cheese parties on the patio, the blow up screen movie nights in the back yard, the barbeques on the 4th, Christmas parties for journalists and homeowners. He could host engagement parties in that den, rent out the entire house for weddings. He could do all that he dreamed of doing.

But it occurred to him, while washing his hands in the bathroom. He sopped his palms with an incredibly sweet smelling soap that was oddly familiar, the kind of saturated buttery rich texture and lavender scent that exfoliated his cuticles and promoted circulation. He was so confused that he knew that, even recognizing the font on the side of the bottle sloped romantically to accent the floral background.

It was the same soap his former boss sent out to clients on Christmas, accompanied by small bottles of perfume and after shave in a slate embossed gift bag. And looking around that pristine bathroom, he recognized the hand towels that he had personally embroidered for an ex-girlfriend, the air freshener that his former colleague gave to his daughter, wife, and mistress, the shower head that his dad made him send back one father's day on the notion that it was too fancy for his lifestyle, and the plush ultra-suede bathmat that Stiles had in his newly left apartment.

It started rolling around in his head, the idea of old faces taking up vacation stays in the second floor rooms; his old boss requesting the sheets be cleaned with sensitive detergent, the owner of his apartment complex inquiring about how soundproof the basement rooms are, his ex-fiancé reminding him that she was allergic to peanut butter even if he had soaked the wooden spoons in bleach because god forbid he throat close and she's unable to tell him how allergic to peanut butter, and really all forms of nuts, she is-

And in the quiet dripping noise of that bathroom, in that perfect house, his epiphany withstood indecision.

"I had an epiphany," Stiles told Erica upon leaving the bathroom. She had been reclining on the white leather couch, feet up on the coffee table and totally engrossed in her phone like a teenager.

"Well, you better have flushed," she said, looking him up and down with a scowl of confusion piercing down through to the tip of her nose. Unmoving, she let him start to pace like a childish detective worried about sleuthing in places he shouldn't sleuth.

"It dawned on me, I was washing my hands and it was a soap that my boss use to send out. And you have the same towels I had and the bath mat, it's all the same. And I keep looking around and you've got the same furniture and really awful art work, why does anyone think destination photos are good," Stiles rambled, pointing to the framed photo of the forest preserve from a few miles out of town, omnipresent block lettering on an out of place red sign some 12 feet high

"Stiles, seriously, that stuff is just there is make it look 'housey'. You can take it all out, it's not bolted to the damn floor," she explained, opening and closing the lock screen on her phone.

"It's not that it's here, it's that it's here. It all belongs here! It goes with the house and the house goes with the people that come to the house, it's the house; Erica the house is too nice," he slapped his palm to the back of his hand to make a point, heaving a bit and staring Erica down like he'd made a formulaic break through and was awaiting validation.

Erica stared him down, biting the urge to snap at him. Normally, she's a much more understanding realtor and caring friend. But Stiles was getting under her skin the way a stupid sibling would, pressing her for compassion when all she wanted to do was stick his head in to a kiddie pool.

She drew in a deep elaborate sigh and exhaled it like smoke, "I can work with that." She stood up, fiddling with her phone like a finger exercise toy and sticking her nails in the silicone seam of the case. "You want somethin' less modern, maybe with some historical value? Somethin' cozy, with character?"

Stiles nodded wildly, coming down from the anxiety high he worked himself up on, still fidgety and looking to make things sarcastic in those habitual ticks he'd never shaken.

Erica mulled over a thought, thinking of estates and properties that had an old world vibrancy or were simply not as kept up as others. It brought to mind a townhouse, a few blocks off main street overlooking the sweet children's playground and public park. The property was well aged, needing a new coat of paint and primer but unnoticeable from a few feet away, mostly appearing like a water colour illustration in photo graphs. A long drive way and small yard made it ideal, much more spacious than other properties and a back yard that was twice the size of this one.

"If you don't mind something with smaller rooms," she said, pulling up the photo gallery on her phone to show a small selection of pictures, all grey washed but unfiltered, having a supernatural effect on their edges, as though dipped in resin. "This listin' has a good homey vibe to it, some of the floors creak and there's plenty room for improvement. It was built around 1905 and restored in 1978 and in 2001, got makin's of a Colonial Revival style with the long porch, can damn near fit a living room on it. All of the original wood is holdin' up the house and the brick in that driveway was put in the last ten years. It's two full stories, four bed and two bath, no master. The kitchen is a separate from the dining room, got a swingin' door connectin' them and a breakfast nook right there too," she was quickly swiping through photos, trying to concentrate on the ones that showed the full rooms and corner angles highlighting the ambient features.

"And you can move everything," she paused to add, motioning with her hands and putting away her phone. "It's four blocks away and I got the keys."

"I can do four blocks, let's do it," Stiles said a little on the overwhelmed side but excited to imagine his life in a house that didn't emulate his apartment décor. The appeal of an older estate, something with heavy flaws that didn't require major service to fix, seemed like a better option, something that would get him excited.

* * *

 

"You made me show you six houses. SIX. On a bad day, I show a client four. You saw six! Lord, when you called me up I thought, 'Now here's a fella who doesn’t know where he's goin' but at least known what he wants'. I'm normally not wrong about these kinds a' things but you, I been wrong. I ain't never been more wrong," Erica muttered, continuing on and on as they drove down the south access road out of to

Stiles had been apologizing every few minutes, trying to remember if Liam covered this kind of thing in his god awful books.

He felt that she wasn't going to hold a grunge, just some venting frustrations that were pretty deserved after their day together. A combined five and a half hours, the bulk of Erica's work day, spent calculating the fine efforts of indifferent shrugs and hardly specific requests.

Stiles started off wanting a modern, pristine and historical home. Then he wanted something fashionably that still had that interest he could promote. And the he wanted a bigger back yard with the possibility of doing camp outs or chic starlight events. Then he needed something away from the town comforts, not in the safety net of connecting or making a break for it and selling up his life's dream. And then it all came back to the Mawtucket house, still spinning ita pinwheels and calling out to him.

He figures it was just because he wanted to hurry up and see Aunt Penelope's old house and its rickety wooden hull, battering jn the wind.

Hw had the suspicion that it would give him some kind of closure. Stiles didn't leave Penelope's house with any kind of distance, the far between saturated sweetness of dreams where he stood just at the gates end and saw himself running toward the entrance. It was more of a creamy illusion of thoughts relived, the feel of his thumb getting a thick splinter o. The wooden railing or the surge of energy as he felt as one of Miss Mawtuckets old pigs was fighting a quivering black bird, the mesmerizing escapes of his country life replayed in his head like marathon clip shows, so surreal and fabricated that they felt fake. He could see the real memories like replayed analog tapes, rewound over and over that their blackened film became altered, filled with burnt plastic holes in some excuse for better memories.

He had gotten that closure from when he gutted Aunt Penelope's house when she died,, taking down every still patterned point in her life time, do disillusioned that she had really died. It didn't hit him until years later, when he was so comfortably attune to a normal life of no vacations and nothing but study. It hit him hard that he'd never see her again. Visiting a partially estranged and lonely aunt once a year for three months seemed didn’t make it hard to miss the time in between. But uttering the phrase "I had an aunt who lived in Georgia" felt strange, putting on an identity that didn't suit him and made his skin crawl. He had an aunt who live in Georgia, but he wasn't use to the past tense of that term when it came up so seldom.

He had an aunt who lived in Georgia and her home was gorgeous. It was rotten to the core, filled with junk, and the wind made it clear she wasn't welcome by the stench of her living room. But it's where she lived and where Stiles was like family. In that trust of familial love, he felt so comfortable. He didn't have anyone other than Penelope running their finger through his hair and cooing to him about what a fantastic anything he was going to be. In her old age, she couldn't see a single thing, in all regards, Stiles as a child (concerned with out small explosives the disgusting levels of bugs) wasn't clear in what he wanted to be. And she saw that, his awkward middle growth years in awe of her barely achieved dreams of managing a silly little farm where she sold chickens for stock and show.

Aunt Penelope was the last family link past his father that Stiles had to the intricate line of Stilinskis, trapped in the lined notes of historical documents and immigrants passports. He didn't take much stock in his ancestors, so fresh on American soil that they still clutched their seeds and potted ferns, but the farm of Penelope was pure proof of his genetic audacity and ability to endure strife. For years that Penelope withstood debt collectors knocking at her door, greeting them with fresh bread or cookies, it was no doubt in Stiles' mind that he would withstand less. He had bones passed down from his ancestry to stand strong and upright in hurricane and twister winds,

So it was easier to remember what he could look forward to than what Erica was fixated on. This was her job but Stiles was on a near literary quest to reclaim the right be indifferent and scared with a brand new lifestyle. Of which was lightly touched upon in Liam's books.

"I could smack you upside the head," Erica growled.

"Again, I'm really sorry I wasted your day but I feel like I'm closer to finding the perfect place," Stiles explained, he wasn't good at defending himself if it didn't involve some variation of sarcasm so this was a bit more difficult.

"Ooooh, I sure am glad you're closer to finding your dream house cause I ain't. Less you want it outta town…" Erica muttered, taking a familiar turn down a dirt drive off the access road, sputtering little rocks under her tires.

"That could be an idea," Stiles suggested, watching the pastures turn in and out of marshland, laden with mosquitoes and the heavy musk of mold.

"Lord help me," Erica grumbled, rolling her eyes so far back she swore she could see brain.

Stiles couldn't help himself from smiling. Getting underneath Erica's skin was a delight in a way, how she fretted and gripped the steering wheel, noticing the nail marks in the rubber. She didn't seem like an angry person but most of the marks had come from other drives and restless work days trapped in her car with other idiotic home buyers.

They were pulling up over a sloping hill where the marshes hit the pasture, far enough from the lakes and bayous that the grass and under brush was crinkled and dying in the humidity. The view of Ostburn was too distant to make out shapes but the lakes had been sprawled out like the footsteps of Paul Bunyun. Its expanse felt mesmerizing, seeming to go forever in all directions, broken up by barren or thick leafed bushes and the presence of purple mountains peaks. Those peaks and leaves and the beautiful end of his joke away from home.

The beams of light coming off it were beacons all their own in the calm of dusk, quelled shifts of sunshine radiating on the horizon behind it like a halo. The tenderness of that light made it picturesque and breakable, one slamming door taking it down in a tumble.

"Oh my god, there it is," Stiles said under his breath. It took every ounce of sense not to throw open the door at their speed and run to it.

"It looks like we're early too, Derek'll probably let you look around while we set up," Erica said, the bitterness lost from her tongue.

She pulled up, the driveway being just the road that converged to its end. A sleek black pickup truck was parked outside, something of an older model that was well worn on its wheels and engine but outwardly pristine, the cab full of hay bales and loose plastic covers.

Erica pulled up beside it and dug a tube of lipstick from her drivers side console, flipping down the blinder for its mirror. The color matched her nail polish, a charming subdued red that made the skin tone pop when she pursed her lips or disapproved of anything by scowling.

Stiles, having no cares, took off out the passenger side like a horse being born, tripping over his own gangly feet and catapulting himself.

Erica put the car in park and shouted for Stiles to help her unload the back, unsurprised when he wandered off. He was suddenly on a childhood adventure, trying to place every book and birds nest on Penelope's house, the open windows creaking their solemn hellos and the ivy vines waving to him in the breeze.

On the wide porch there had been Penelope's rocking chair, exposed wood and splintering legs, and a chest of drawers that had gardening tools in it. Replaced with a stack of coolers and cattle feed, it looked much more modern, a cast shadow from the open front door to the living. But the door was the same, an outer screen door polished and restrung, keeping the restless mosquitoes carrying West Nile on the outside, and the pocket knife marked height lines of Stiles and his father gouged in to the side. He went to run his hand over the door frame, sticking his fingers in the grooves, comparing his frame to what his father had been more than twenty years before.

He went to pull back the door, not hearing the footsteps from the other side and the silhouette coming towards him. A man with a dark beard and falcon expression opened the screen with a snap, eyeing Stiles like a lemming who didn't stand a chance. He had an ominously stark and stained white apron, hand pressed with spattered splotches all along the waist line and a greased spatula in the pocket.

"Who're you?" He asked, stepping out and letting the door close behind him.

Stiles just gaped, unsure of how to explain himself and let his mouth hang open with a monotone, "I….uh…"

"Hi, I'm Stiles and I lurk on porches," Erica imitated in a low, less twang voice, coming up the stairs with a few long flat boxes and thrusting them in to Stiles' chest. She smoothed down the front of her blazer and said, "This is the client I texted ya' 'bout. His aunt use to live here and I reckoned it'd be a good treat after him closin' on a house."

"But we didn't close on a house," Stiles interjected.

"Which is why you get t' play clean up boy after supper," Erica said with a sweetened drawl to her voice like she was talking to a toddler. She pushed past them both, kicking the door open and shouting, "and I'm gonna get drunk on Turkey!"

They watched Erica meander in like a fussy starlet and tuck off her shoes. Standing there alone was a little awkward for them and Stiles was beginning to agree with Erica on how his city boy muscles needed to get a little bit of country work in them since the light boxes were slipping from his grip. He put out a hand anyway to introduce himself.

"I'm Stiles, by the way. Sorry for coming here so out of the blue," he said, trying to seem apologetic.

"Derek Hale," he replied, shaking Stiles' hand, nearly enveloping it in his grip. "And you're no trouble, we could use more mouths for getting rid a' left overs."

"I am absolutely down for a good meal, especially in Penelope's kitchen," Stiles said, gazing over Derek's shoulder to see the edges of the kitchen counter tops and the faded blue frames. When he saw the confusion on Derek's face over the name drop, he added, "My aunt Penelope, she used to own this house."

"Right, well maybe you can tell me where the scorch marks under the sink pipes came from," Derek said.

"You try getting an 83 year old woman to quit smoking and you'd be surprised there aren't more," Stiles replied.

"That explains the carpet…Why don't you take those in and I'll grab the rest in Erica's car," Derek said, pushing open the door for Stiles and holding it open.

"There's more?" Stiles walked in to the landing, seeing the place he use to leave his shoes and muddy back pack and collections of rocks or dead bugs. It was a clean spot, replaced with a shoe tree and basket for umbrellas and, apparently, a tall wide mouthed shovel.

"It's a lotta people," Derek replied, taking off for the car, the swing of his hips knowing every step of the stairs like he'd gone up and down them his whole life.

-

It was the entire town. Possibly the entirety of Ostburn County given its populous size and just how many people were roaming around with bottles of Bud and paper plates of ribs and coleslaw. All surprisingly mindful, coasters were abundant and shoes were either placed in piles by the door or wiped off on the welcome mat.

But despite the sheer volume, it remained a real gathering of friends from what Stiles saw. He introduced himself about sixty times, constantly shaking hands and giving sincere nods during conversations he knew nothing about. People there talked about community projects, city developments, high school pageants, and putting their kids in summer sports camps. It was endearing and possibly a settle-down kind of future Stiles could compare himself to.

Erica occasionally checked up on him, bumping hips and offering sips of her bottle of whiskey that was more attached to her than her own limbs. It was a kind gesture given that she hadn't spared a drop for anyone else except herself. Stiles only indulged on the first offer, never having tried straight whiskey before and getting so worked up about how it burned it mouth but went down smooth, sending panicky fish twitches down his arms and spine. The lipstick residue from the bottle printed on his own and Erica made obscene drunken lip smacking noises as she slinked away back to her husband's arms.

Finally meeting Vernon Boyd was awe inspiring, a killer ton bulldozer of a man who baked pastries and made to order wedding cakes for a living. And Stiles quickly found out just how good his catywampus cupcakes could be, having brought the delicately perfect and destroyed master pieces from his shop. Stiles immediately grilled him on small businesses in Ostburn, how to start up the market and his trials and tribulations.

To which, Boyd just laughed through the bubbles of his beer and said, "If you make a sign, put a couple 'round town, people will show up."

"It's not sound city-boy logic but it works,"

"It helps bein' the one a' two bakeries in the town. And the only one that does made-t'-order. Otherwise they gotta go to Breckenridge for a damn cake," he said, an arm looped around Erica's waist as she slotted herself in to his side.

"Hmm, y'know who you should talk to? The Hales. Laura and Derek went to the city college in Bolene when they lived there. Took the same classes and everythin' without realizin' it.

"Is that where they met?" Stiles asked, expecting to hear some long draw out story about college sweet hearts who met over a study group and celebrated passing finals with their first kiss. But Erica cackled a laugh deep in the caves of her sinuses that sounded like a bellowing goose, even Boyd laughed, though a bit more subdued.

"They met a little earlier in life," Boyd explained.

"'Bout 44 years earlier, really," Erica added, downing another long drag from her bottle. She went on when all she got was a look of derision and stupidity from Stiles, and he wasn't even drinking. "They're fam'ly."

"Oooh," was all the Stiles could make out without sounding too dull. "That suddenly makes a lot of sense. The eyebrows, mainly."

"Nah, them two are well acquainted in the art a' hatin' one another for petty shit," Erica said, pursing her lips like a cat, enjoying the spread of gossip. "In fact, now they can start fighten' over new game. Derek's not even battin' for the team anymore."

Boyd looked down at Erica with a kind of derision that made him feel like he's was being lied to, asking, "When in the hell did that happen?"

"'Bout a month or so ago," Erica smiled wide, lipstick getting on her teeth. "Told me he wanted t' start lookin' around after that 'lectrician was here fixin' the light on y'all's street. Comin' in for coffee and donuts every mornin' and makin' eyes at him."

"How'd I not notice that? How'd he not tell me that, we work in the same damn kitchen!"

"It's different for y'all boys, you get uncomfortable when a girl talks 'bout her damn period. Really think you can handle talkin' about sex-u-al identities without tappin' out?" Erica asked, incredulously and with every ounce of judgement her curvaceous tiny frame could muster in bare feet and a blazer. She glanced back to Stiles, asking with the upmost sincerity, "Stiles, if you had yo' boys talkin' to you 'bout how they might wanna start lookin' at the other magazines you find at the Conoco, would you be sittin' there all fine or would you be a lil' bit on the uncomfy side?"

"Well…I'd probably be, uh, they'd probably be asking for recommendations, considering…"

"Considerin'?"

"I also read them?"

"Oh," Erica made a confused sound, putting the Lincoln logs of her thoughts together to make the perfect place to house her next idea. "OOOooooh, I see, I see, I see. You datin' anybody now?"

"Uh no, I just got out of a relationship. And I doubt the dating pool here is going to be all that big."

"Yeah it's a real mud puddle for some people. Speakin' a' which, I'm gonna go wet my whistle, do excuse me boys," Erica said quickly, sneaking away at a lightening pace for the kitchen and darting between a few couples leaning against both sides of the door frame.

Boyd and Stiles watched her run off, the same cat like bounding steps bouncing her wild curls in all directions. Boyd just sipped his Bud and said, "Ain't no shame if you wanna stop her. Or I could tell her to call down if you need."

"I'm pretty used to it, actually. The second someone knows you're queer they set you with their only gay friend and are surprised it doesn't work out," Stiles took a bit out of his cupcake, catching the crumbs in his hand. "What I do wanna know you get these so fluffy and how much you charge for wholesale."

Boyd chuckled, taking a swig of his Bud and looking over Stiles' shoulder to across the room, making a nod with his bottle. "We'll talk business when you close on a place, for sure. Tell me what you wanna do with it, I'll tell ya' what failed for Laura when she started her place up."

"Excuse you," a voice had popped up from behind Stiles as Laura Hale made a entrance on cue, "What now failed for Laura?

"Timin', for sure," Boyd replied, going in for a hug like they hadn't seen each other in years. "How's that couple from Maine doin'? Still at it like rabbits?"

"Haven't seen 'em since yesterday. I' been leavin' 'em plates of food by their door hopin' to smoke 'em out and they still haven't budged. Half tempted to call the coroner 'fore I get back and so I can meet em there." She pulled Boyd's beer out of his hand, wanting to take a drink but sloshing it around and realizing it was nearly empty. Making a face she handed it back and patted the back of her hand on her hand on his chest, saying, "Ugh, I'll get my own."

"Back wash not your tea?" He teased, downing the last and giving Laura the empty. She immediately started to peel off the label, what seemed like an enjoyable habit that made a mess.

Looking on Stiles, awkward as ever, she asked, "How'd house huntin' with our gal go?"

"I…very nearly closed on one I liked," Stiles replied, making a centimeter of closeness with his index finger and thumb.

"How many'd she show him?" She asked Boyd, low and causal.

"Six," Boyd said.

"Oh!" Laura scoffed, reaching out to smack the side of Stiles' shoulder and chiding "that's just plain unmannered! I expected your daddy t've raised you better than that."

"I didn't know there was a limit!" Stiles balked, "How many houses did you see before you closed??"

"17," Laura teased, "But not in one day! I waited out for the Mundells to finally knock on heaven's door and when I did, bought it from their grandson who flew down from Connecticut and had money to spare for furnishin'."

"Does a house only go on market out here when somebody dies?" Stiles asked.

Laura thought about it for a moment, looking like she was counting instances in her head, and replied, "Hmm, it's the norm. What'd I miss, anyway?"

"Your brother, for one," Boyd said, rolling back his shoulders and leaning on the wall behind him, minding a strung up painting he could have knocked over.

"My brother what?" Laura asked defensively, using the bottle like a pointer.

"Apparently, he's gay now," he said like it tired him to say it.

"He's not 'gay now'," Stiles interjected, "He's just, y'know, maybe 'gay'."

Boyd glowered at him and huffed, pointing and Stiles and saying to Laura, "Also gay."

"Bisexual!" Stiles defended, a mouth full of cake stifling him.

"Oh cram it, both of you. Derek's been findin' out who he is, ain't no thing. And you, will be supportive, Vernon. None a' that hyper macho nacho bullshit," Laura dictated, trying to find better words than 'macho nacho' to emphasize her point.

"Yeah yeah, I just don' get why he didn't tell me or talk t' me about it. I see the guy every day," Boyd said.

"He didn't wanna make it a big thing. Y'know how he is with this kinda stuff. He'll talk t' you when he's ready t' talk you," Laura said, poking him in the side with the mouth of the bottle.

"For what it's worth, man, it's not really about you. It's about him," Stiles consoled. He glanced over to the doorway to the kitchen, seeing Erica's black Nike shoes under the swing door and the top of Derek's black hair peeking out from the top.

"Alright but, really, was it cause a' that electrician?" Boyd asked, overly animated. "Cause he was makin' goo-goo eyes at erry'body."

-

Stiles had been hesitant to go off ok his own in his someone else's house but as the festivities were dying down he was getting to an ancy point where he wanted to see his old room. It had been Penelope's sewing room, a cot in the corner meant for him to grow in to. She'd promised to get him a real bed when he was tall enough for it.

He was curious if it still smelled like moth balls and his mud laden clothes. Or if his submarine window could see out to Miss Mawtucket's kitchen she she'd dance at midnight with margaritas and salsa music.

He had meaning to ask what happened to her, if she had kicked the bucket like every other ghostly memory talked about vaguely by homeowners looking to buy or sell. She had always been an introverted night owl, taking up late afternoon naps and doing all her with just before the sun rose. The pigs and chickens are raised followed the same schedule, clucking like mad at 4am and settling down when they felt the hot humidity.

Mawtucket was a mystery Stiles asked his dad about over dinners, fascinated by her weird kindess (giving him advice of bugs, treating him to pistachio ice cream she made in coffee cans, and telling him stories of what the 70s were like for and her daughters). He'd ask if she was married, if she really had daughters and if they ever visited, if her daughters were actually pigs, how she made money, even asking if she was a bank robber and that's why they visited every year.  
His father never knew how to respond and often questions were deflected to Aunt Penelope who usually said, "she's as normal as the rest of us." Even now, Stiles isn't entirely sure what she had meant by that.

There had been odd activities that Mawtucket had partaken in, especially the nightly escapes to her dungeon tool shed that glowed in the evening. She would do was looked like rituals on leveled tree stumps in her yard, planting and dancing around saplings and new sprouting wild flowers. Occasionally, she would uproot everything by the stem sprinkling grass and perennial flower seeds like it was May Day, taking the ripped up greenery back inside wrapped up in a basket.

She had been eclectic, to say the least. A person that Stiles figured was just left to her own devices. Not once had Mawtucket ever mentioned anyone other than her pigs or her daughters.

Wandering around the house, relying on his memories from two decades ago, Stiles pawed through the open and closed rooms, hoping he wouldn't find anything that he'd regret. Derek had seemed like a run of the mill kind of person and no one made note of him living with any roommates. Stiles was figuring some of the rooms might just be empty or used for storage. Finding his own was easy, passing by the prayer nook that was now empty, the bathroom that use to have an Anais Nin quote on the door( And the day came when the pain of staying in a tight bud was greater than the risk it takes to bloom), and the master bedroom that Penelope had filled with her hand made afghans, wooden statues, and dresses from a past century.

He pushed open the door to his old room, the nail that hung spools of thread still at eye level still there. It was surprising seeing the placement of someone else's things in a familiar zone. All that filled the room was a humble twin bed in modest covers and a computer desk on the other side. The walls were blank, save for a free calendar with a hanging red pen, and the open closet stored with a mountain of unpacked boxes. Somehow, it all felt smaller and insignificant.

It kept hitting him that this wasn't someplace that he could take claim over anymore, even in his memories. Every creaky floor board and moldy piece of insulation wasn't his problem and every hidden crevice that could house a multitude of fascinating history wasn't something he could rediscover for himself.

But it dawned on him that there were plenty of hidden crevices throughout this house. Some he'd found and told his father about, who very sweetly asked him not to put anything in them that could make mold or attract ants since Stiles was a prodigy at hiding food, and some that he'd kept secret from everyone. There'd be a spot in the closet just above the door frame, a loose piece of wood that fit old pocket books perfectly.

"What are you doing?" A voice asked from the doorway. Stiles had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Derek come down the hall. Leaning on the door jam, he had two long neck beers and a bottle opener in hand.

"Hey, sorry for uh, snooping. This use to be my old room," Stiles said, glancing back to the closet for only a second, sure that he hadn't taken out the last book he stuffed in that hidey-hold.

"It's okay, you wandered and figured you'd be somewhere up here," Derek said, opening one of the beers and handing it to Stiles. He took it, cool in his palm. "How long'd you live here?"

"Only a couple of summers, I think like for like six years. We only stopped because my dad got to be Sheriff and couldn't take months off anymore. Told me I could come here by myself but then Penelope died. Last time I was here, we moved everything out and did this huge estate sale. My dad didn't care if he made any money off anything so all of Penelope's stuff was like, a dollar or free. She had these gorgeous old book cases, gowns and costume jewelry from the 1940s, a huge collection of paperback books. All of it just up and went in a week,"

"Your dad not like her? That seems kinda cruel," Derek asked, opening his own bottle, the sixth he'd had that evening but still steady as a rock.

"Nah, it was her idea. She said to sell everything she owned or give it away. We packed up some and took it to a couple vintage stores in Breckenridge. I kept a few things, mainly the weird books she had. I don't know why, but she had about seventy text books and manuals on deserts and steppe plains. Never explained why," Stiles said, laughing at the absurdity of it now and how it seemed so normal when he found those books for the first time, pouring over them for a week and a half.

"In fact, um hold this for a sec," Stiles handed the bottle back, going for the open closet and sectioning himself against the boxes. He looked above, searching in the low light until he found the small divot in the boards, almost sealed by its expanded wood seams. Prying it open with his nail, careful to avoid splinters, it came off with an audible pop and the saran wrapped book fell flat on his face along with bits of plywood. He blew off the pieces that landed on his lips and caught the book with his free hand as it slid down his chest.

"It's still here!" He exclaimed, pulling off the cling wrap and exposing the cover. It was a pulp fiction book with a cover trying to be scandalous called Girl's Dormitory, the tag line describing them as 'luscious campus cuties'. "I don't really remember this book but I'm pretty sure I know why I put it up there."

"How'd you get that up there in the first place," Derek asked, sliding in next to Stiles to look at the hole now in the closet. "Don't tell me this is in every room…"

"Nah, I checked when I was 10. But there is a hole outside near the water hose and then one in the kitchen behind the fridge. That one is great, it blends in with the wallpaper," Stiles said, flipping through the pages of the paperback, trying to see if he left himself any chicken scratch notes.

"What else is there that I don't know about?" Derek asked, shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, maybe not drunk but tipsy enough to not care about personal space.

"If you haven't noticed, there's a spot in the attic where my dad killed a rat and didn't clean up the blood and then the vents smells a little like rosemary. Penelope told me she spilled a bag on the water heater when she was drunk and never got around to cleaning it up."

"I vacuumed that up the minute I moved in and it still smells," Derek laughed. "When my sisters come over they think I'm roasting."

"I'm weirdly glad about that. It's probably nice around Thanksgiving, though," Stiles said, squirming around with a corner of cardboard puncturing into his back. "Hey, what are all these boxes, anyway?"

"It's all Cora's stuff. She moved out when she got divorced and I told her she could stay here."

"Where is she now?"

"Somewhere in Mongu," Derek said nonplussed, a hint of pride. "She got a degree in agri-business and joined the Peace Corps. She'll be home in another year."

Stiles exhaled, impressed, "That's a good way to get over someone."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you doing here?" Derek took another swig from his beer, handing Stiles' back his own. "Erica said you were looking to open a b&b and that you use to be a lawyer."

"Well, that's pretty much it." Stiles said, shrugging it off when Derek kept looking at him with the kind of intent that it wasn't enough of an answer. "I couldn't do my job anymore. I felt like I was 55 and getting ready to retire. In a career that you hate, everything just feels that much hard. And it was corporate law, sucking the life out of me. And when you're involved in multiple fraudulent accounts at one time, just, you get to a point when your phone vibrate in your pocket and you think you're having a heart attack. So yeah, I'm not being miserable, is what I'm doing."

"That's pretty fair. I don't know anybody who can compare to that," Derek replied, almost amused by farcical it sounded, how Stiles' life was just the plot of a bad movie that he'd seen somewhere.

"It's very sad, I know. I just wanted to do something that I could care about and maybe not be so stressed over. Plus, I'll be my own boss. I'll set the house rules and kick anybody out when they don't follow them," Stiles said.

"Now you're talkin'," Derek chuckled.

"What is it that you? Erica told me that you work with Boyd," Stiles asked.

"That's right. I'm co-owner of Boyd's Place," Derek said. "Erica was too scared of him sending them to debt and so I ponied up half the startup cost. And I'm the only other employee.

"What's it called?

"Boyd's Place.

"Yeah, what is Boyd's place called?"

"No it's," Derek laughed, explaining it for the second time that day. "It's called Boyd's Place, bakery and custom cakes. Neither of us knew what to call it and he thought'd be funny."

"Seriously? I mean it works but I'm not coming to you for ideas when I finally find a place," Stiles chuckled, half serious. "I've got a weird question if you don't mind. You don't, uh, sound like your sister. Or anybody I've met, actually."

"That's not a question," Derek replied.

"Well, you, did you grow up here? Or have you always lived here?"

"I grew up with my family in Langston, it's an hour and a half away drive away. Then when my parents divorced, our mom moved out of the state to Indiana to live with my aunt. Cora and I don't sound like most of the family since we were out of the South as we grew up. But when Laura graduated highschool she hitch hiked down to Savannah, lied her way in to getting hired as a mechanic, and we all pretty much followed her over time. I was still in Jr. High when she left and Cora was only 11. She offered me a job and a place to live when I graduated, kept saying that I should come home. It wasn't actually home but it was where she was.

"But I've been back to Langston a couple of time, we got dragged down there every time my grandmother was on her death bed."

"Do you like it here?" Stiles asked. "I mean, compared to everywhere else?"

"It's the place I've had the most family. Our…group here feels secure; we all settled down before we knew it."

"I can understand that. I use to have a pretty big support system before I moved to Boston and then all the friends I made there were pretty in and out of my life. I have met more people today who I genuinely like and appreciate than I have had in the past two years."

"Who all did you meet today?"

"Well, your sister, who immediately hugged me and told me to play a prank on Erica, a guy at a pet store," Stiles started out, searching for a name.

"Curly blonde guy? Or black haired guy who was dropping boxes on his feet?" Derek asked.

"Curly blonde and if my gaydar worked out here I would have asked out," he said.

"That'd be Isaac. If I was a decade younger and didn't know better, I would too," Derek laughed.

"Then there's Erica, Boyd, and you," Stiles said.

"Oh I made a good impression?" Derek asked, putting on airs like an interviewer and feigning modesty. He careened his elbow back a few inches and flinched when two corner edges pinched the back of his arm.

"You definitely did. But I know as good as anyone how much is sucks to be in the closet so let's maybe get out of here," Stiles pushed himself up and stepped out, stuffing the forgotten paperback in to his pocket. He held out his hand to pull Derek up from where he had slumped, cradling the mostly full bottle in the crook of his chest. No matter how much tolerance a country boy can have for his beer, Stiles knew that everyone forget where there feet were after a couple of beers.

"Oh god, is Erica telling everyone?" Derek asked, groaning and taking Stiles' by the arm in a too firm grip. He hurled himself up and crash into him, stumbling to get their footing.

"I meant the actual closet but, she is, yeah," Stiles said, sectioning himself against Derek to make it a little less awkward. Their hips were at the same height with Derek standing just an inch taller. "You okay there, big guy?"

With the speed and intensive of Erica running full throttle down a hall, anybody would think she could be heard a mile away. But in the same thought, three worded rousing chants coming from the living room that suggested a brawl worse than a prison fight should also be heard on the second floor of an open windowed house.

So when she showed up in the doorway, out of breath and a little bit of her lipstick smeared, Derek and Stiles both felt like they had been spied on instead of interrupted. But breathless heaves got their attention as Erica mumbled out, "Hey! Aren't you two cute. Derek, y'know that thing that sometimes happens which is why ya don't like outsiders to get invited? Yeah, it's happenin' again, wanna come and break it up? Laura's a lil preoccupied."

"Please tell me it's not the Whittemore kids picking fights," Derek mumbled, handing his beer to Stiles. Straightening up and heading out the room, he grabbed the door frame and leaned in to Erica to say, "Make sure he's not in the way."

Erica nodded but rolled her eyes like she knew keeping the fight down stairs from Stiles would be a hard to do, given its volume and size that was not very easy to make out. There was a bit of crashing they could both hear.

"What's going on down there?" Stiles asked and set both bottles he had on the desk nearby, trying to follow Derek but getting stopped by the heavy palm of Erica's hand on his chest.

"Ain't nothin' but a drunken brawl, it happens. We all just don't wanna given the wrong idea t' newcomers who might think we're all a little too punch happy," Erica tried to explain.

From downstairs the onslaught of cattle calls and hollering shouts was broken by the absolute guttural noise of a deep demon like roar, the low nervous rattle of metal dancing in door frames and nails as though the house might come crumbling down in the calamity.

The silence that followed was cautious, hearing every low groan of air siphoning through windows. Stiles took the chance to pull from Erica's grip, thinking he could run faster than her before she tripped him up and had him flat on his stomach.

She immediately checked his face, worried she slammed him too hard down, "Jesus, are you all right?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Why did you trip me?" He asked, turning over on his side and putting a hand to his nose.

"It…really is just best if you wait it out up here. Why don't we talk houses? You saw the Mawtucket house on the way in, why don't we just go see it?"

"Erica really, what is going on down there? This is weird," Stiles said as he propped himself up on his elbows.

"It's fine, fine, fine. Rowdy kids from the finer parts a' Ostburn County came to a party they weren't welcome to and are far far…far too young for, and it's getting' quiet now, what are they doin'?" Erica mumbled to herself, standing up straight and taking two steps down to listen in.

Stiles sighed, getting back on his feet and dusting off the knees of his jeans. "That's a great idea, actually. Why don't we give Mawtucket's house a look over?" Stiles said quite loudly, running past Erica again, practically throwing himself down the stairs.

He was awestruck that there was fur on the ground, patches of strew across the couch and Derek there with his knuckles gripping the necks of two teenagers who groaned in shear dramatic agony at being submissive in front of a quiet party. Stiles couldn't hear, but it was clear that Derek was talking to them quietly, trying to subdue them.

Slowing down to a shorter pace, Stiles was at the foot of the stairs trying to make out the mood of the room and the two dozen sets of eyes all looking on to what seemed like near children being violently disciplined. He didn’t expect Erica when she pushed him in the small of his back down the rest of the stairway with a beeline aiming him straight for the open front door, catapulting him outside.

He crashed in to the screen door, tripping his way to the porch beam and shouting, "Erica!? What the hell!"

She didn't stop, yanking him by the arm down the pathway and across the drive through, the keys in her pocket jingling as she searched through them for the realtor lanyard adorned with goldfish. Her grip was strong on Stiles' arm, leading him all the way down the road with him shouting for her to stop.

"Erica, please, tell me what's going on! What was Derek doing to those kids? Erica, please!" He kept on and on, realizing that his pleas were inefficient but still following.

Liam's self-help book series covered identity crisis, addiction, job searches, and major lifestyle changes. They were mostly beneficial when Stiles' had been listening, taking in the idiotic verses and applying them without realizing. He was especially fond of the mantras, having written them on post it notes for him to discover throughout his day. "I am a cougar; an independent predator" was his particular favorite, seeming the most masculine and self-aggrandizing.

But in the situation, he was not a cougar. He was a very small house cat, being taken from the box he lived in on the street and dragged to a new home that looked like all the other houses he had ever seen. They all looked the same to a cat, to confused and pitiful kittens.

"Erica," Stiles whined, feeling the whole of the day starting to wear him down. He'd been up since 6am Boston time, biting his nails to think that this change was the best idea for him. Right now wasn't necessarily the best time for him to have his crisis in identity was it was when he was having it and it was exhausting.

"We're almost there, almost," she said, feeling sorry for him as they hopped up the short stack of stairs to the Mawtucket porch where the automatic light greeted them. She sunk the right key into the deadbolt, the second one following as she unlocked the door knob. Opening it, she threw Stiles in, shutting it behind them both and then facing him.

"I'm sorry. I'm as sorry as any gal can be, but you couldn’t be there. You shouldn't'a been there for that," she immediately said, putting her hands together to assuage him.

"But what was that? He had them both gripped at the neck and nobody was doing anything," Stiles berated, flinging his arms around.

"He wasn't hurtin' them, he was keeping 'em from hurtin' ev'rybody else. Those kids got a lot more bite than they look," Erica protested

"They were kids, Erica. Kids!" Stiles back up and started walking around aimlessly, heading for the kitchen out of habit. "You had to call a grown man to take care of a couple of kids? And god, what was that noise? It sounded like a damn dinosaur, I was not imagining that. What the hell was that?"

"That was…" Erica trailed off, looking for the right words. She followed Stiles on tiptoeing steps, trying to keep between him and the door even if it didn't seem likely he would bolt again. "Not som'in I can explain…"

Ignoring her, Stiles went to look out the kitchen window, stumbling around in the dark and catching his foot on the kitchen table. Peering out he could see silhouettes in the other house through to the living room, people were moving around again as some started heading to the door. They all looked unperturbed, calming walking around and making awkward jokes, reliving the scene through what they can amass to impressions and gestures.

"Stiles, Stiles, you don't know us well enough that I can tell you. It's a lotta info that you won't get and won't unda'stand and tellin' ya isn't in our best interest," Erica explained as best she going, squinting her face up in nervous ticks.

"Who do you mean by our? All those people saw more than what I saw," Stiles pointed out, hunched over the window and fuming.

"Those people are our…family, in a way. They're….they're not use to it but they understand it," Erica said, coming up behind Stiles and gently putting a hand on his shoulder. Standing her ground, in soothing tones, she went on, trying to calm him down, "We ain't doin' nothin' wrong but we're not the kinda normal folks you knew up in Boston. You get to know us and we trust ya, then I'll tell ya. I swear on the book, I will tell ya."

"…Ok. I can respect that. I…you're not doing anything illegal, are you?" Stiles' asked, a million other questions running through his head. "Because I still have a valid license to practice law, I could help you."

"No no, it ain't nothin' like that," she cooed. "It's something that's very near normal for us. It's just what we are," Erica said.

"Alright… You didn't bring me here knowing that would happen, did you?"

"No, never!" She said, returning back to her cool defensiveness. "I'd never wanna see you get hurt, 'specially by shit kids who have some daddy rich enough to burn a wet mule," Erica muttered, looking out the kitchen window.

They could clearly see the two Whittemore kids getting dragged out and put into the back seat of a black lexus by what looked like Isaac from the pet store. He seemed to ask for their keys, getting the older one to hand them over and tossing them to Derek when he stepped off the porch. He made some grand statement to the onlookers who careened through the windows and over the side railings, nothing that Erica or Stiles' could hear but it must have rousing by the way they all cheered and waved goodbye to him.

"Looks like the mess died down and Derek's takin' the kids home. Thought they knew better by now, this is damn near the third time it's happened. Why don't I make us some tea? It's a touch more fun in here than it is wrapped up in a mess of chatter," Erica said, going to the cupboard and pulling out two pink mugs.

Stiles kept on watching, seeing both Derek and Isaac get in to the car and buckle in. They started the engine and pulled out on to the road, taking advantage of the smooth terrain and expensive car. The headlight illuminated the path and as they took off down the road, the flare hit in to Mawtucket's kitchen and lit it up like daylight. Too bright to be sure, Stiles thought he could see Derek looking straight at him from the driver's seat.

"How are they gonna get back?" Stiles asked, hearing Erica fill a kettle with tap water and set it on the gas stove. There was a clicking of it trying to light itself and then the roar of it taking flame.

"Isaac hitched a ride with my husband up here. Derek'll prob'ly drop him off before he takes those two home and then wait for him at the bottom of their driveway," Erica said, taking out ancient boxes of tea from the cupboard. Only finding one that was usable, she pulled out two bags and set up the mugs, figuring they could go without the sugar.

"I'm pretty sure most of those boxes were there when I was here last," Stiles joked, going to pull up a chair to the kitchen table. His legs hadn't reached the floor as a child and now height worked against him with his thighs barely fitting underneath. He compensated with a sideways lean, thinking it would have looked cool had he not been surrounded by 1970's aesthetic decorating and dragged there by a woman who could obviously crush him.

"It'll probably be there by the time I kick it, too. This house's been on the market for a good five years now," Erica said sniffing some of the obviously well aged boxes and making faces at their musky aromas. "I'm not sure what t' do with it most days. Even that woman's granddaughter didn't expect it t' move."

"Mawtucket actually had kids?"

"Mmhmm, I think a girl an' then three grandkids, all as red headed as she was," Erica said. "The only girl a' hers that cared t' call me about the place was this lil' thing named Lydia. I get calls from her 'bout the house maybe once a month. Only met her the one time and she wouldn't stop readin' my palm. Now I take good stock like ev'ry other Georgian gal 'bout the goin' ons a' voodoo, hoodoo, and creaole spicin' but I leave my little bags of salt at home. Girl just puts me on edge, like she knows more than me 'bout myself."

"Is she like a witch or something?"

"Witch or? Pete's sake," She rolled her eyes. "You gotta lay off HBO. She's something' of a spiritualist, goin' round with her cards and shards. Only time I met her in person was because she wanted to make sure her grandma wasn't still lurkin' in that house. Spent the night and everything," Erica said. Pausing for a moment, she thought back to when she first spoke to Lydia, "Said somethin' weird about Hale House, now that you mention it."

"What'd she say?"

"It was…something 'bout a old friend comin' in and outta the windows. She heard somebody or saw somebody, said 'He's coming home soon' then she got in her car and left. I figured she was talkin' bout Derek since he was outta town at a horse auction," Erica felt around for the silver ware drawers, taking out a spoon and going to run it under hot water while the kettle started to whistle.

"Maybe she was talking about me…" Stiles muttered to himself.

"Could have," Erica mused and Stiles wondered how she even heard over the whistling. "Probably could ask her if ya met her. She's a…well, she runs a pretty famous circle round in some a' the clubs in the south and up north, professional like and kinda flashy. She's just a one bubble off plumb, is all. I take what she's got t' say with some salt and sugar to it."

Erica divvied the water between the two mugs, stirring the bags in with the tinkling sounds of the spoons. She picked them up and set down one in front of Stiles, a tacky Garfield mug older than he was. Stiles let his steep while Erica took deep breaths of it through her nose, deep sighs following with the mug cradled in her hand.

"Does the furniture come with this place?" Stiles asked, little rolls of ideas kicking around in his head.

"At no charge. I'll even throw in the moldy food for free," Erica said, blowing over the top of her mug. "You ain't thinkin' a' buying this place are you?

**Author's Note:**

> Ages; Stiles is 34, Derek is 43 (Cora is 37), Laura is 48, Erica is 33 and Boyd is 37, then Isaac is a resounding 29.
> 
> leave your fave self help audio books in the comments


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